Ave, Caesarion (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  ____________________

  For a long moment, Caesarion couldn’t think. Finally, he turned back towards the three Gauls, whom his men had bound and gagged. “Tenth looks hard-hit. Seventh looks better. Fourth has had it.” He swallowed. “Prisoners,” he finally agreed, his voice empty. “For now. Where’s their god-born? The woman?”

  In the face of such awesome power, nature itself unleashed, his words sounded hollow and very ordinary. And he couldn’t ask the question that burned in his mind. Because at the moment, the personal wasn’t a damn bit important.

  ____________________

  Eurydice dropped to her knees in the little snow that had come through, and for a moment, she blacked out entirely. When she opened her eyes and looked down, she couldn’t understand why the snow had red droplets all over it.

  A rough hand on her shoulder, and then Malleolus lifted her chin to inspect her face, his blue eyes detached. “You don’t look so good,” the centurion told her gruffly. “Your brother’s going to have my hide.”

  She reached up, wincing at the gesture, and wiped at her nose, which seemed to be running. “At least . . . he’ll be alive . . . to be angry.” Her voice sounded harsh and raspy in her own ears, and her chest ached. Her back ached. Her belly ached. There wasn’t, in fact, any part of her that didn’t scream with pain. Eurydice looked at her shaking hand, and registered that she’d managed to get blood all over it. “What? Oh . . . my nose is bleeding . . . .”

  “That’s not the half of it,” Malleolus told her, digging in his kit for a piece of cloth and wiping not at her nose at first, but at her eyes. The cloth came away red from there, too, and Eurydice stared at it dully—and then a tickle at the back of her throat made her cough, and she brought up blood that way, too.

  Dim awareness of dozens of men around her now, staring. Reaching out as if to touch her hair or shoulders, but letting their hands drop. Eurydice tried to stand, but couldn’t, and Malleolus got one arm under her, lifting her to her feet.

  Hushed cheers. No one seemed to want to risk anything louder.

  Then she heard something else. A fey little laugh.

  Eurydice turned her head slightly, and saw a black stag appear behind Malleolus. The men all around her stiffened, raising their shields. “Found you,” a woman’s voice said, harsh as a crow’s call. “A little too late to keep you from meddling.” The blood-stained woman rode the creature a few steps closer. “A Roman witch. How astonishing.”

  “Get back,” Malleolus told the woman, raising his sword and shield, and stepping between her and Eurydice. And to Eurydice’s mild surprise, a half-dozen other men stepped forward, too, forming a ring of iron around her.

  A low growl, and the woman’s wolf limped forward now, too. “You don’t look Roman,” the woman told Malleolus, her voice brittle. “Perhaps you’re like me. The product of a Roman rape on a Gallic woman. But instead of standing up for your violated mother, you take their salt and eat their bread. What kind of a man does that, I wonder?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Malleolus growled. Eurydice slipped back down to the ground, trying to find some reserve of strength somewhere in her body.

  “Oh, well. Hardly matters.” A quick phrase in that twisting, melodic language, and another snarl from the wolf—and then the beast leaped forward, not going for the throat, but for the exposed legs of the closest legionnaire. A quick bite and a yank to take him off-balance, and then the woman moved in. Flash of her spear in her hands as she ducked and dodged and wove, driving the point into . . . feet. Yes, she was targeting the legionnaires’ feet, quick stabs and then pulling back again. Eurydice thought this was madness at first, but as the men grunted in pain and limped forward, she understood the sense.

  And then the woman simply jabbed one man in the throat and ducked past his falling form, quick and lithe, as her wolf took down another. She closed on Eurydice, who still sat on the ground, trying vainly to get up again. An amazingly strong hand caught her by the hair, yanking her to her feet. Then the woman adjusted her grip, so now one red-daubed arm latched around Eurydice’s throat, pressing in hard, and Eurydice’s mind spun as the spear’s point came to rest under her chin as well. Dazed impression of the men around her spinning inwards. Malleolus’ snarl of rage. The Briton woman’s laughter as she spun in a circle, never presenting her back to any enemy for long. “This one doesn’t look that Roman, either,” she hissed in Latin. “I wonder what tribe you stole her from? No matter.”

  One of the men beside them jabbed at the woman with his own spear, and Eurydice saw the blade deflect off the woman’s red-daubed arm. She’s not screaming at them, Eurydice thought dimly. She’s not killing them with her voice. Maybe she can only do that once in a while? She does have limits. Hope then, a tiny spark of it. She can’t be invulnerable. Fire, she thought, reaching for the power inside of her. Caesarion’s not immune to fire. Or drowning. Or a sharp stick in the eye. Maybe she’s not, either.

  The problem was, her own internal fires were banked so low, she couldn’t reach them. She rubbed her fingers together to produce warmth, and all she managed was a feeble shower of sparks, which only made the woman laugh more. “Burned yourself out,” the Briton taunted in her ear. “Saving the lives of rapists and butchers. Such a noble cause, and now, you can’t even save yourself.” She backed away, still dragging Eurydice, and the men moved with them, warily.

  “You’re surrounded,” Malleolus grated. “You’ll never escape. Not even with a hostage.”

  Another peal of laughter as the wolf leaped again, taking out the legs of another legionnaire, who fell to the ground, the muscles and tendons in one calf shredded. His fellows spun, driving their spears into the animal’s side. But even as the animal howled in pain, the woman replied scornfully. “None of you can even touch me. The best you could do would be to pile atop me, and you won’t do it. Not while you risk harming her.” Another chuckle, and she backed up further. “I’ll make the decision easier for you, my brother.”

  Eurydice scrambled again for power inside of herself, and found nothing but ashes and cinders. Her world spun, and she got one clear view of the vicious spikes of stone rising up from the ground, left frozen there by whatever magic the other dark riders had used. And then she found herself propelled straight for those spikes. Panic rising in her, Eurydice struggled, but she couldn’t resist the other woman’s strength.

  And then there was nothing but pain as the rock tore through her abdomen. Eurydice screamed, and flung herself away from her body, away from the dull agony as her form slid slowly down the spire of stone, each inch doing more damage to her intestines and internal organs. She found a hawk’s mind, spiraling high above, and rode it, wondering distantly if this tiny spark of herself would survive when the rest of her died. I’m sorry, she thought almost incoherently. I’m sorry, Caesarion, Aquilus. It wasn’t to be after all. I’m so sorry . . . .

  ____________________

  Malleolus shouted in rage and threw himself at the terrifying woman bodily. He had height, reach, and weight advantages. He had seventeen years of experience—he’d served in the legion since the age of nineteen. And yet he couldn’t affect her. His spear bounced off her skin the way it did from Caesarion’s. She knew enough to protect her vulnerable eyes. And her speed was beyond anything he’d ever seen before. Her spear was a blur in the air, never still, always one step ahead. He and the other men already bled from wounds inflicted by her, her wolf, the other enemies they’d fought today.

  Two more men died as her spear found their throats, but more men crowded in now, looking for an opening. Giving up on his own spear, Malleolus threw it at her as a distraction and then charged in. Managed to deflect her spear with his own shield, and landed atop her, driving her to the ground. But even here, she was slippery as a piglet and as boneless as a snake—and stronger than any woman should be. He got his hands on her wrists, shifting his hips rapidly as her knee came up in a savage blow that probably would have unmanned him, had it connected. �
�Help me,” he snarled at the others around him, and they moved in, past the dying wolf—and that’s when the woman leaned up, as if for a lover’s kiss, and bit him with her fangs.

  Malleolus recoiled, and she didn’t catch his throat, but felt the teeth clamp in his face instead. Felt the flesh of his right cheek tear away as she shook her head, savaging him like a wolf. He recoiled reflexively, losing his grip on her hands, and then recovered, diving back down to put his full weight on her, while her claw-like nails raked at the back of his neck, drawing more blood.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He’d allowed Eurydice to come to harm, just as he’d allowed Alexander to come to harm before her. It didn’t matter that the assassins two years ago had been armed, and he’d been outnumbered. It didn’t matter that this woman was clearly born of the gods, and that he was only a mortal man. He’d failed. Twice. If he died bringing this god-born bitch down, it didn’t matter at all.

  Hands. Hands of his sworn brothers, latching onto the woman’s arms. Applying their full weight now, too. Hands on his pauldrons, urging him up. Voices. “Mal, get up, we’ve got her. Let us have a look at you.” Warm stickiness of blood on his face. And pain, yes. But no worse than the pain of failure. The pain of seeing Caesarion’s red eyes as the Emperor appeared at the edge of the ring of men, approaching now. Prisoners behind him, bound and gagged. But the young Emperor didn’t look at him, or the god-born prisoner currently being held to the ground by four strong men. The young man walked right past them all, his eyes fixed on his sister’s fallen form.

  And lifted her, ever so carefully, from the rock that impaled her. She’d lost consciousness, mercifully. And every man around them, hardened veteran or no, winced at seeing the violation of that delicate form. “She saved us,” a man blurted as her head fell back limply over Caesarion’s arm, her long hair spilling towards the ground. “She held back the mountain. I saw it. She saved . . . she saved us . . . .”

  Staring only at his sister’s pale face, and not acknowledging those words, Caesarion walked slowly towards the center of the little tableaux. In his own face, Malleolus saw bleakness. Emptiness. The future of the Roman Empire, if Caesarion’s sister didn’t live, the centurion suddenly realized, would be a terrifying one. He’ll have no mercy on us, he thought distantly. And some of us will have deserved nothing less. She’s his humanity.

  Young Alexander, leaning on the standard of the Seventh, and Tiberius, finding their way to the edge of the circle. An inarticulate cry of pain from Alexander, who shoved the standard at Tiberius and took three steps forward, his eyes shadowed. “Caesarion,” he called, his voice tight. “Take my life. Give it to her. You brought me back for a reason. Let this be the reason.”

  Heads snapped towards him, including Malleolus and Tiberius’. “No,” Malleolus said, his voice a rasp. “Use mine.” It’s the only recompense I can offer.

  ____________________

  Caesarion settled Eurydice gently on the ground. “No,” he told Alexander and Malleolus distantly. “No more Romans die today.” Her heart’s still beating. Somehow. But not for long. He stroked her hair back from her face tenderly.

  “She pushed the avalanche aside,” he heard Malleolus’ voice, and Caesarion slowly turned and looked. The centurion’s face was concealed by a blood-soaked cloth at the moment as soldiers to either side of him tried to staunch whatever wound he’d taken to the face. “I couldn’t stop her—and she could barely stand afterwards. Bleeding from eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. Spitting up blood. Like one of the boulders hit her, and not the shield. I tried—” Mal shoved the well-meaning hands aside, and Caesarion noted that the centurion’s right cheek had been torn to ribbons. Not all the way through—he couldn’t see teeth—but the upper jawbone, near the eye, showed through the torn flesh. “I tried to get her up, get her away. But then the bitch was on us.” A jerk of his head in the direction of the Briton woman, and Alexander made his way forward to kneel beside Eurydice’s still form, taking their sister’s limp hand in one of his own.

  “She saved us,” another dazed voice came from the crowd of on-lookers. “Even though we were rebels.”

  Caesarion lifted his head again, feeling murder start to boil deep inside, under the cold, slow shock. “I doubt that error of judgment was intentional,” he bit out, rising to his feet. “I think she intended to save the men of the Tenth and the Seventh. And you simply benefitted from standing close enough to them to be caught from the waves by the same net.” He swallowed, wanting nothing so much as to kill every man of the Tillii legions in front of him. “She saved you. And had nothing left with which to defend herself.” No. I said no more Roman lives today. I’ll hold to that oath.

  A burst of laughter jangled harshly from the female prisoner. Caesarion swung towards her and advanced. “I picked the right Roman to kill,” she declared in her accented Latin. “Not that there’s a wrong one.” She smiled defiantly, her eyes flicking past him towards his prisoners. “I hope the loss twists like a knife in your heart, son of Caesar. Little enough vengeance for the slaughter in the eastlands. Little enough vengeance for the rape of maidens—”

  Caesarion caught her jaw in his hand, exerting just enough force to stop the words. One hand on the pugio at his belt, the squat, heavy dagger carried by every legionnaire. “I am not my father,” he said, letting his voice carry. “I’ve never been interested in expanding Rome’s borders. Only in stabilizing what we already have. Until today, I couldn’t have given two shits about your island or its people.” He increased the pressure, feeling the jaw hinges pop, but she didn’t so much as cry out in pain. Just met his eyes with more hatred than he’d ever seen in another human’s stare. “I’d have opened trade with your people. I’d have offered to exchange knowledge. I’d have invited your singers and philosophers, such as you might have, to come to my table. Today, that changed. Because you changed it.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. Such as this one will never see it. Never believe it. I can’t send her back to her people as a message of Rome’s might or my own clementia. She’s too dangerous. And she murdered my sister, my beloved, or damned near. “I have a message for your people and your gods,” he said, his voice so harsh he didn’t recognize it as his own. “Rome will be coming for you. Not today. But soon enough. And to ensure that your gods get that message, precisely as I’ve spoken it to you,” his voice shook for a moment, as the rage boiled in him again, “you can take it to them when you meet them in the afterlife.”

  His hand moved of its own accord, snapping the pugio from his belt and then up under her chin, just behind his own hand, which still held her jaw in place for the strike.

  The blood-daubed skin was no barrier to his god-born strength or the fury in him. He felt the broad blade crunch through the soft palate and up into the cranium, catching for a moment on bone. Then penetrate the softer flesh of the brain that Egyptian funerary priests thought was such a useless organ.

  Her head went limp. And in the moment of her death, Caesarion caught the energy of her life and turned away, leaving his knife jutting from her jaw. Knelt, and lifted Eurydice up, kissing her forehead gently. “Come back,” he murmured. “Come back to me. Of what possible use is the Eagle of Rome without the Hawk of Egypt?”

  The bloody wound in her belly began to heal, skin closing back over the opened intestines, with their terrible odor of shit and blood. Murmurs of wonder from all around him, but Caesarion just held her to him, rocking her slightly, his eyes locked on the sky above.

  Her chest heaved as her breathing and her heart restarted, and Alexander gave a low cry of relief. But still, her eyes didn’t open . . . until a hawk stooped out of the heavens, landing on Caesarion’s shoulder. Only then did he dare to look down, and saw that her lids had peeled back, revealing eyes as golden as the hawk’s, though dazed and unfocused. “Aquilus,” she managed to croak out, loudly enough that the men around him could hear it.

  And in pure relief, he kissed her lips lightly. “Accipitra,” he replied. “Res
t. Heal.”

  She didn’t stay conscious long after that. Caesarion stood, adjusting his grip to ensure that she wasn’t too uncomfortable. Distant awareness that his two prisoners were staring from him, to the corpse of their god-born, and back again. Mingled wonder and terror in their eyes, just as there was awe and wonder in the eyes of all the other men around him.

  And his mind began to function once more as it should, no longer buried under shock and rage. His eyes flicked across the vast swathe of unstable ground between them and the remains of the Fourth. An unstable expanse that cut all the way down the face of the mountain, removing large sections of the winding trails they’d used to get here in the first place. “Going to be a bad trek back down,” he said, his voice still sounding odd in the silence that had spread around him. “Who do I have left who’s senior?”

  A lot of confused glances. “I’m here,” Cicero Minor said quietly, limping forward with one of his centurions holding him up under the shoulder. The legate of the Seventh had taken an arrow to the thigh, which someone had broken off and bandaged for the moment, but the shaft still jutted out through the wrappings.

  “Get someone to rig up a signal for the Fourth that doesn’t involve horns,” Caesarion said, jerking his chin at the peak above them. “Tell them to get back down the mountain any way they can, and regroup at the baggage.”

  “The gods only know if they have any officers left over there,” Cicero muttered, and then grabbed Tiberius by the shoulder. “You. Stop staring about like a sacrificial ram who’s been hit by a hammer. You’re with me. What happened to your horse? I could use to be off this leg.”

  “Ran off during the avalanche,” Tiberius replied curtly. “Trampled a few men trying to get away. Just as glad I wasn’t on its back at the time. The cavalry auxiliaries on the far side probably encountered the same problem.”

  “Get a detail together to try to find the horses,” Caesarion directed. “You men of the Tillii—”